do the sides, but I’m afraid I’d make a hopeless mess of the back.”
Accepting the scissors, he moved the desk chair over by the bed. “Sit here in front of me.”
One deep breath for strength, and she did as he asked. The mattress springs creaked as he took a seat on the bed directly behind her. “How short?”
Did his voice tremble?
“Chin length.” Her hair touched her collarbone now, which meant he’d be removing two to three inches.
As he combed through her hair, she sighed and closed her eyes. When they’d first met, he’d loved her long hair, insisting on brushing it every night. Sometimes those sessions had turned heated, and they’d made fierce and passionate love. Her entire body warmed just thinking of it.
She could tell from the catch in Sean’s breathing that he hadn’t forgotten either.
The first time he skimmed the comb through her hair, a chill skittered along her spine. How she wanted to turn her head and press a kiss into the palm of his hand, the way she used to. Instead she held herself perfectly still, trying to relax.
Impossible.
His breath tickled her ear, her throat. Any moment now … She braced herself for his whisper-soft kiss, so familiar she ached for it, so alien she dreaded it.
When it never came, she reminded herself to breathe. Too much time and deception had passed between them. They each had a job to do, for their country, their agencies and their own personal satisfaction.
Giving in to old memories, old lusts, would accomplish nothing.
“It’s done.” His voice sounded husky. When he ruffled her newly shorn locks, she couldn’t suppress a shiver.
To keep from doing something foolish, she jumped to her feet and went to the mirror over the desk.
She looked … different. The choppy haircut brought out the hollows of her high cheekbones, but it was more than that. Life had returned to her face. Her eyes were no longer a muddy brown, but the amber color they’d once been, the color Sean had always teased her about by saying they glowed with passion.
Passion. No matter how she might try to hide this, even from herself, passion burned in her and her body knew. Each moment she spent with Sean, hearing his voice, longing to feel his touch, marked her.
Natalie was no longer Natalie Major, the efficient Super-spy, the woman made of ice. Despite her best intentions, she resembled Natalie McGregor, the woman hopelessly in love with her mate.
From behind her, Sean made a strangled sound. In the mirror, she saw him standing on the other side of the bed. His dark eyes glowed, full of such heat she nearly gasped. Their gazes locked and held.
Slowly, she turned, her pulse beating erratically.
When he came to her, gathering her in his arms, the scent of him, the feel of his muscular body against her, was almost unbearably painful.
Still, she hungered.
His touch as intimate as the old days, he trailed his hands over her skin and caressed the small of her back.
Ah … this. Arching against him, she lifted her face for his kiss, starving. He met her halfway, crushing her mouth beneath his. His lips devoured hers, demanding, hard and punishing, making her whimper a weak protest at first. But as he deepened the kiss, she welcomed his mouth as though two years had been erased.
Finally, her world was … full.
Stupid. With a hiss, she jerked away. Though she immediately felt bereft, she hid it with a scowl. “Don’t do that.”
The lazy look he gave her had amusement mingled with the desire. “You’re mine,” he stated, with all the confidence of a lion surveying his pride.
“Not anymore.”
“Always.” His voice dared her to disagree.
Though she could have argued, Natalie chose not to dispute his words. He’d always been able to tell when she was lying.
Instead, she grabbed his head and pulled his mouth down for another kiss. Impatient now, anger blazing into desire and need, grief becoming longing and the shame of his betrayal subjugated into want, she used her tongue the way he’d always found unbearably arousing, stroking the inside of his mouth, suckling his tongue. Reckless, abandoned, she tore at his clothing, craving him naked, hard and deep inside her.
His breathing came harsh, unsteady.
“Natalie?”
“Don’t talk,” she growled. “Not now.”
Grabbing her hands to hold them still, he held her away. The question she saw in his eyes felt like a dash of ice water down her back.
What had she almost done?
“I—” Hand to mouth, she backed away, as far as the small room would allow. Still, her body throbbed, wanting him.
“Shhh,” he told her, not coming after her. Was that grief she saw flash across his rugged face, or merely thwarted desire? No matter.
He’d saved her. She owed him that. She’d nearly made another huge mistake to add to her already huge list of them.
Even now, trying to clear her head, one look at the front of him, at his blatant arousal, and she nearly said to hell with it and went to him.
Closing her eyes, she drew one ragged breath, then another. How well she remembered the fit of him, tightly sheathed inside her. Their lovemaking had been explosive, intense and fulfilling, something she’d known no other man could measure up to.
“I’m sorry,” she told him, absurdly on the verge of tears.
“I understand,” he said, though she knew he didn’t. Aching, she wanted to weep.
“I’m …” She couldn’t find the words, though she knew she should be asking questions. Ask, hell, anyone else would demand an explanation. As if anything he could say would explain his betrayal.
When her mother had left, Natalie was six, but she well remembered her questions, and the way her father had had no answers. Finally, he’d told her she was better off not knowing.
Now she understood what he’d meant. Sometimes knowing the truth could hurt more than whatever the mind could imagine. She’d been an adolescent when she’d finally figured out her mother hadn’t wanted her, didn’t love her, and had left of her own free will. Up until that point, Natalie had convinced herself the woman had been abducted, forcibly dragged away from the daughter she adored and the husband she loved.
No longer a child, nor a teen with easily bruised emotions, Natalie knew she should demand answers. Should, but wouldn’t. She didn’t really want to know.
Instead, she brushed past Sean, grabbed the box of hair coloring off the table and went into the toilet, closing and locking the door behind her. She needed to walk, needed it the way a smoker craves a cigarette. A breath of fresh air and a brisk, two- or
